


The Wait

by ofgold



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, spoilers for 7x06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 09:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11849031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofgold/pseuds/ofgold
Summary: Daenerys waits for Jon to come back to her, and this time she doesn't leave when he does.aka: Dany's POV after the wight hunt mission and subsequent rescue.Spoilers for episode 7x06!





	The Wait

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first GOT fic, but I love jonerys and I loved this episode so much that I just needed more! I hope you enjoy :)

Daenerys didn’t know how long exactly she had stood atop the wall.

It had been hours, at least. The harsh wind biting at the exposed skin of her cheeks all the while. She was glad she had not yet found the strength to cry if only because she knew those tears would surely freeze before they fell.

She watched Drogon and Rhaegal, flying and roaring heartbreaking cries that echoed through her bones. And she watched the tree line far down below, waiting. Waiting.

She had lost a piece of herself when Viserion fell. The piece fought and tore its way through her blood and sinew and flesh to join her child as he sunk beneath the ice.

He’s dead. Daenerys knows he is. Even if she hadn’t been there to see him fall from the sky herself in a explosion of fire and blood, she would have known. She would have felt it from here, or from Dragonstone, even across the world in the Dothraki Sea, she would have felt it.

What she can’t accept is that Jon Snow is dead.

 _Go,_ he had yelled to them as he still fought dead men from the ground.

 _Not yet,_ she’d thought, _we need you. I need you._

Even when Daenerys watched him, too, sink beneath the ice, she waited. But he didn’t surface, and the one he had told her about—the Night King—had raised another spear and she had no choice but to listen to him and go, fleeing with the others on Drogon’s back.

Another piece of herself was left behind then.

Over the weeks the King in the North had spent at Dragonstone, Daenerys had grown from her initial respect of him to blooming admiration, and she’s not too proud to admit that it had quickly evolved to affection and something else. More, maybe. Something greater.

She hadn’t wanted him to leave on this expedition in the first place, despite her recognizing its overall importance. And she had spent every day since that boat had left her shores troubled and fraught with worry.

When she received that raven requesting aid, she hadn’t thought twice about it, even as Tyrion pleaded with her not to go. She spent the whole flight urging Drogon faster and faster still until she saw them.

The undead, the army. Thousands of them. More.

Her dragon’s could not burn them fast enough, there were too many. And she was forced to leave Jon Snow behind, sinking into that frozen water.

But he wasn’t dead. Not like Viserion is. She knows he isn’t.

So, Daenerys waits.

 

Ser Davos stands watch with her, for a while. He doesn’t look away from the ground. The snow and the trees. He stays as silent as she is as she gazes upon her dragons in the frigid air, as she eyes the distance with him.

But before long, he leaves and Daenerys is alone again.

Part of the curse of being alone is too much time with your thoughts, and that curse haunts her now as she waits, and waits more.

_If I look back I am lost._

So Daenerys thinks of whatever else she can. Like the wall of ice she's now stood upon. She remembers this wall from the visions she had from her time in Qarth, and it feels like it did then, in a way.

Like a dream, like this is not real, like she could wake up in her chambers at Dragonstone and receive updates as Jon Snow mines the dragonglass he so wished for in the caves below her birthplace.

She doesn't even feel the cold, really. _Dragons are fire made flesh,_ she thinks, _and I am the mother of dragons._ Maybe she can't get cold, with the fire in her blood.

But her cheeks are red from the wind whipping at her cruelly, so she's afraid it’s just that the empty feeling in her chest is spreading wider and eating her whole. 

Jorah joins her later, and a part of her wants to ask him about what happened beyond the wall, how he fared and of the others who were with them. But she can't find the words, and she stays silent.

He tries to urge her a few times to come down, to get warm, to eat something, _please, Khaleesi._ But it's not until much later that the last of her hope finally wanes.

“A bit longer,” she tells him eventually, taking deep breaths in order to calm herself. Her heart is racing as if it too will rip itself from her chest to join everything else on the other side of the wall that she loves.

_If I look back I am lost._

Daenerys turns away from the edge.

A horn blows.

 

She watches as they carry Jon Snow into his cabin on the boat displaying her Targaryen sails, his body shaking like there's ice in his very veins.

But he's alive, breathing, and they tell her he’ll suffer no lasting injuries. For the first time since landing back at the wall, she feels the beginning of her outward composure begin to fracture.

And then, she sees it.

They're removing his wet and freezing clothes, to get him warm lest his heart stop from the cold, and she sees the scars. Deep, still red and barely healed. On his stomach, his chest.

 _He took a knife in the heart for his people,_ Ser Davos had said that first day in the throne room at Dragonstone, and the truth of his words are now clear. Daenerys has always herself been willing to die for her people, for her causes. And so it seems Jon Snow would too. That he has.

He doesn’t open his eyes the first day, when they set sail back south. Or the second day, either, but still she sits at his side, silent and turbulent and calm until someone pulls her away. To eat, to plan, to sleep.

On the third day, he wakes. And finally, Daenerys lets herself cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her while he lays there, hurt and bed ridden, “I’m so sorry.”

He takes her hand in is, and the piece of her that fell with him beneath the ice as she flew free finds its way back to her.

“I wish I could take it back. I wish we’d never gone.”

She shakes her head at his unneeded guilt. “I don’t,” she tells him truthfully. “If we hadn’t gone I wouldn’t have seen. You have to see it to know. Now I know.”

She pauses, and then swallows her fear. Maybe it’s fear of rejection, or something else but she has to tell him. “The dragons are my children, they’re the only children I’ll ever have. Do you understand?”

He nods, and it’s a feeling greater than relief.

“We are going to destroy the Night King and his army. We will do it together, you have my word.” She vows to him, and they will. She knows it. Every piece of her strains towards this goal, to protect her kingdom, and for vengeance.  

“Thank you, Dany.” He says to her, gratitude flooding his tone.

The name shocks her. No one has called her that for years, at least, not since…

“Dany,” she huffs out in a breath, “who was the last person who called me that? I’m not sure, was it my brother?” The sound of his cries before Drogo had killed him echoes in her head from across the Narrow Sea. “Not the company you’d want to keep.”

“Alright, not Dany.” He says, and she has an urge to tell him _no, it’s okay, you can,_ but he continues before she can work up the nerve.

“How about My Queen? I’d bend the knee, but,”

The gesture means nothing to her now, but the words strike something deep in her very core. “What about those who swore allegiance to you?”

“They’ll come to see you for what you are.”

Her breath becomes harsh, ragged as she tries to hold back more of her cries. She can’t hold herself back from reaching for his hand, though, but really she doesn’t want to anymore. To hold herself back from her feelings, not for him, not anymore.

“I hope I deserve it.” _I hope I deserve you._

“You do.”

His expression and tone and words are all open, not hiding anything, and it scares her. Not his feelings— _Jon Snow’s not in love with me,_ she’d told Tyrion, and she’d wanted so badly to be wrong—it’s the vulnerability that frightens her.

But when she goes to pull her hand away, he doesn’t let her. _Stay,_ the gesture says, and so she does. Jon Snow moves over slightly on the bed, creating a space just large enough for her to join him.

Laying down with him, and taking the liberty to rest her head on his chest next to the scar on the other side, Daenerys feels at home.

**Author's Note:**

> follow my jonerys blog :) [lastargaryens.tumblr.com](https://lastargaryens.tumblr.com/)


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